


mortal means

by RiddleMeDucc



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gender Neutral Partner Pronouns, Masturbation, Other, Unnamed partner, befitting of the subject matter i suppose, ducky's fancy smut, my smut isn't always this flowery I just Do What I Want, protective possessiveness, slight Fear Kink, small fic about big things ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°), who knew i could drag it out to quite this length?, written as a 6am gift to the scarecrow chat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:00:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25206619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiddleMeDucc/pseuds/RiddleMeDucc
Summary: sometimes, the self-styled god of fear must succumb to mortal things.
Relationships: Jonathan Crane/Unknown
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	mortal means

He'd shed this all-too-mortal body if he could. 

A man of his stature should not have to succumb to such things, he thinks - it should be the mind over these basest of matters, a temptation, a distracting, carnal urge to be _resisted._ It is a waste of time, a game of the mindless, the mark of the idle. The _devil's workshop,_ as it were.

And yet, here he is, stroking slick and slow.

It's timed with his breaths, hand rising and falling like his thin, still-clothed chest, the distraction having grown too much to bear. His pants are pushed down only enough for access, like something quick and furtive and shameful in the dark, like nights of youth and exploration. Knowledge, nothing more. Science over pleasure. 

That's what he told himself then. He wishes it was true right now. 

His cock twitches in his hand when he thinks of it; the look on their face, the permeating terror, as raw and primal as what he's doing now. The most ancient of emotions, intrinsic sensation, driving forces intertwined. Fear and pleasure. He lays back, eyes closed, head thrown back as he chases it, that memory, that look in their eyes as he turned to face its source-

Gone. He curses under his breath as the fire sputters, as the heat wavers in its spring-coil like betrayal; distraction, _distraction,_ he hates it. His grip on his cock re-affirms, thick and familiar, and his pace resumes - his free hand gropes at bedsheets for his prize. Desperate measures for these all-too-desperate times. He needs that release. He _craves_ it.

He presses his face to the fabric, and breathes deep.

All at once, the memories are alight again, spurred by their scent, their closeness, their eyes transfixed on him, both in pleading pleasure and in begging fear. A whimpered plea of his name in one and for help in another. Being wanted, needed, _needy._ They want him. They _need_ him. His hips buck into his grip at the thought, throwing off his rhythm, but it's growing _overwhelming_ and he couldn't care less. His low, rumbling groan muffles into the fabric. His hand chases that sweet-spot, that pace and position that has him gasping out for breath, thumb rubbing beneath the head, smearing pearly pre-come along his twitching length.

They need him-

They _want_ him-

_They're his._

Only alone is he this loud; only alone does he come with a cry like he does now, body shaking, cock twitching, pearlescent release barely caught into his hand with the force that rocks him to his core. He can only pant as he milks out the last, rides that high while he can still stand it, chases the electrifying buzz while he still can.

They'll answer for distracting him like this. 

_Mine,_ he muses, as he takes one last deep breath, and pushes the clothing to its rightful place. _Mine,_ he thinks, as their memory flits away from his mind, sated at last.

He'd shed this all-too-mortal body if he could - but until that day arrives, he is all too happy to _enjoy_ what's truly _his._


End file.
